


the awful edges (where you end and i begin)

by leetheshark



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Blowjobs, Cutting, Dom/sub Undertones, Knifeplay, M/M, wound care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:48:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23100466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leetheshark/pseuds/leetheshark
Summary: Roman helps Victor with his ritual.
Relationships: Roman Sionis/Victor Zsasz
Comments: 11
Kudos: 185





	the awful edges (where you end and i begin)

“How many?”

Victor looks up to meet cool blue eyes in the mirror.

It was supposed to be two: a couple of businesspeople who turned down Roman’s offer for partnership. They didn’t know what was good for them. (That happens all the time, lately. Roman just can’t catch a break. It’s fine with Victor. That’s what he’s here for.) But there was a fight. Some unexpected mob associates showed up. Victor took care of them—he always takes care of Roman.

Roman doesn’t always keep count. Victor keeps count in the most intimate way he knows how.

The overhead lights of the living room are dim. The stained glass windows glow from the streetlights outside. Knife in hand, Victor stands in front of the mirror—the one Roman set up for Victor’s ritual alone—in nothing but his boxers.

“Eight,” Victor says.

“Hmm.” Victor watches Roman’s reflection as he stalks over, just having emerged from his bedroom. “That’s what I thought.” He’s in his sleep-clothes, satin robe draped over broad shoulders. He and Victor didn’t get home until two in the morning. The club isn’t open tonight. Roman’s destined for his beauty sleep.

But now, he looms behind Victor, eyes roaming over his naked back.

Victor simmers quietly, with Roman in his space, just as he always does. Victor doesn’t mind people. He doesn’t mind closeness. It’s different when you’re not about to kill them, sure, but something about a beating heart never fails to set him at ease.

Roman, close, is special. Roman is special. Victor would do just about anything for him.

Roman’s hand assaults Victor’s back without warning, palm flat over the broad sheet of muscle, thumb sliding down the vertebrae. “You should have more on your back.”

Meeting Roman’s eyes again in the mirror, Victor starts to get an inkling of what Roman is playing at, and he thinks: _yes._

“Give it to me,” Roman says.

Victor hands over the knife.

Roman weighs it in his palm and examines the blade, his pretty face screwed up with a pout of concentration. Then, he puts his hand to Victor’s back again, deciding where to mark.

“Anywhere you want, boss,” Victor says. “I’m all yours.”

Roman grunts his agreement. He pokes the tip of the blade into the back of Victor’s shoulder. That familiar tingle—like electricity crackling in the air—makes Victor’s pulse quicken.

And then Roman drags the blade down, turning that electricity into a full-blown storm.

Victor doesn’t feel the blood droplets dripping down his back until they start to soak, warm, into the waistband of his boxers. He _does_ feel the sting as his skin opens up, and the slow-burning touch of Roman’s hands on his body. He feels Roman’s eyes on him. He feels Roman’s presence, like always: always overbearing, always demanding, always intertwined with Victor, flush and inexplicable.

“You don’t usually like to get your hands dirty,” Victor says.

Roman’s silent but for a soft noise of appraisal as he starts the second cut. He takes his time with the rest, playing, not too fast and not too slow, like isn’t even conscious of the effect it has on Victor.

(Which is to say that every touch and every drag of the blade goes straight to Victor’s dick. Roman’s probably too focused on what he’s doing to Victor’s back to notice the tent in his boxers. Which is fine. It’s whatever. Victor can jack off later.)

Roman’s standing far enough back not to get any blood on his clothes. He makes the rest of the cuts without saying anything, which is good, because his usual babbling can get _really_ fucking annoying. Victor’s eyes flit between Roman and himself in the mirror—Roman’s face, downcast and intense as he works; Victor’s body, chest flushed in splotches behind the lines of scar tissue.

Six steady cuts later, Roman is done. “Fucking perfect,” he hisses, a hand on Victor’s shoulder as he surveys his work. “So fucking beautiful.”

Victor moans his agreement. Yeah, his scars _are_ beautiful—just like what they represent.

Roman takes his hand off Victor’s shoulder, examining it for stray smears of blood. And then, after a minute of thought, he gestures toward his bedroom with a wave of his hand. “Come with me.”

“Why?”

It’s more soft than demanding when Roman says, “Do as you’re told.”

So Victor follows him into the bedroom. He watches as Roman puts the knife down on the bedside table, then lets Roman move him in front of the bed, facing the wall.

“Stand here,” Roman says. “Don’t fucking get any blood on my sheets.”

Victor rolls his eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Still, he stays put while Roman disappears into the master bathroom, emerging a minute later with an armful of medical supplies. Victor tips his head back and groans. Roman only has all that stuff in the first place because he put his fist through a mirror a few too many times, so Victor started keeping the necessary clean-up supplies close by. “I don’t need that,” Victor says.

Roman sits on the edge of the bed, right behind Victor. “I don’t care.”

It doesn’t really matter. Victor might as well go along with Roman’s stupid game, or whatever it is. “If they don’t scar, you’re doing them again.” Behind him, Victor hears the rustling of wrappers. “You know what to do?”

“Of course I know what to do.”

Victor goes quiet, standing still while Roman cleans his wounds. The alcohol pads sting, but Victor doesn’t mind a little sting, after everything else. Roman slathers on antibiotic ointment, hands moving slow and worshipful over the broken skin.

“Ew,” Roman says. Victor looks over his shoulder to see Roman wiping the slippery ointment from his fingers on a used alcohol pad.

Victor sighs and turns back. “No one said you had to do this.”

“No one tells me to do anything.” Roman starts ripping open bandage wrappers. They’re the big, rectangular kind. With the size of the cuts Roman made, they’ll probably fit just fine. “I don’t give a shit what you do to yourself, but if I hurt you, I’m cleaning you up. I like to take care of my things.”

“That’s not true.” Victor’s ordered enough people to clean up Roman’s messes to know otherwise.

“What?”

“You like to break your toys when you don’t get your way.” Victor can’t see Roman’s face, but he knows Roman is pouting. “It’s okay. You can break me all you want.”

Roman’s intake of breath is almost imperceptible. Victor hears it—he hears everything. He grins to himself as Roman smooths the bandages over his back in silence. He uses four, fitting two cuts under each one. The sticky edges pull at Victor’s skin when he shifts his muscles. He thinks about ripping them off as soon as Roman’s not looking. Or maybe he’ll play along a little longer. Will Roman want to change the dressings later? Victor can’t deny that it feels good to be touched, even gentle like this.

When Roman’s done, he puts his hand again to Victor’s back, over the bandages. It stings. It’s _good._ He trails gentle fingers down, past the wounds, past the undamaged small of Victor’s back, past the blood-spotted waistband of his boxers and over his ass.

Victor sighs. The sound fills the silent room. Roman’s hand slides around Victor’s hip to feel over the ridges of scars on his upper thigh. He has to reach up under Victor’s boxers to do it. Victor’s hard again. Roman’s hand is way too fucking close. His fingers move over the lines of scar tissue like he’s trying to memorize their pattern.

At the sound of Roman’s soft moan, Victor turns around. Pretty eyes sparkle up at him, from that stupid-pretty face (and Victor would never admit to Roman that he thinks so, but _God_ he does). Victor’s eyes go down, down, over Roman’s steady-moving chest, to find long fingers wrapped around a pretty cock.

Victor drops to his knees.

Taking Roman into his mouth, Victor wonders why the hell he hasn’t done this before. He’s always kind of known that Roman would probably let him. And he’s never kept it a secret that he can appreciate a living body just as much as a dead one—or tried to hide how much he appreciates Roman’s body, looking just as good in his satin pajamas as he does in those bespoke, thousand-dollar suits.

The taste of him is like nothing else.

“Oh. Victor. Fucking _shit.”_

When Victor glances up at Roman’s face—Roman still buried deep in his throat—Roman’s eyes are shut, mouth trembling over Victor’s name. Victor’s hands slide over Roman’s thighs. He thinks of the pulsing femoral artery beneath (though he’d never do anything about it). Roman’s hand goes to the back of Victor’s neck, feeling over the scars there, just as he catches Victor off guard with a sudden jerk of his hips. Through Roman’s pajama pants, Victor digs sharp fingernails into his thighs.

“Ow!” Roman slaps Victor’s hand away. “Fuck! Don’t do that.”

Victor moans around him— _fucking crybaby_ —and eases his grip. If Roman doesn’t want nails, he probably doesn’t want teeth either, so Victor keeps it gentle. Whatever Roman wants, he’s happy to give. So when Roman gets close, when he _really_ wants to fuck Victor’s throat and choke him, Victor lets it happen, hanging on tight while Roman finishes down his throat.

Once satisfied, Roman pushes him off.

Victor falls back on his heels. He puts a hand to his face, stretching his jaw, before licking the spit off his lips. Roman’s eyes follow the flick of his tongue. Victor reaches up to cup his chest, watching Roman watch him. He feels over the scars, some numb and some tender, then drops his hand lower, feeling himself through his boxers. Fucking _finally._

Roman looks at Victor like he’s something incredible. It does wonders for Victor’s ego. “Touch yourself,” Roman breathes.

Victor slips his hand beneath his waistband and pulls himself out. The touch of his own hand pulls a groan from his chest. He strokes himself hard and fast, Roman’s eyes on him electric, and it doesn’t take long for him to get there; he’s been hard out of his mind all night.

“Fuuuck.” His whole body jerking, Victor comes, spilling hard over his hand and the floor. His chest heaves as he catches his breath. When he looks up, there’s something new and sparkling in Roman’s eyes.

Roman slides off the bed and onto the floor, swearing with the force of landing on his knees, and takes Victor’s face in both hands. After examining him for a long while, he pulls Victor in for a kiss. The two seconds of Roman’s tongue are enough to keep Victor’s head spinning, before Roman pulls back with a grossed-out look on his face.

“Ew,” he says. “Go wash your mouth.”

Victor kind of wants to ask Roman if he’s fucking kidding—but it would be quicker to go gargle Roman’s mouthwash than it would be to deal with the fallout from that.

So he gets up from the floor, groaning from sore muscles and fresh wounds, and goes for the mouthwash.


End file.
